


the crooked shadow of the morning

by Issay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Christmas Smut, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8896378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: There are games they play, games that keep them sane. It's a dangerous world they live in and some moments are more precious than others.
(In other news, I suck at summaries.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mm8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/gifts).



> mm8,  
> I played a bit with the wonderful Wilson/James prompt, went for some things from the 'extra likes' list and that's what happened. Hope it's at least in some way what you wanted.  
> Have lovely holidays! <3

James looks exquisite.

Muscles of his arms are tight, his fingers on the ropes tying his wrists to two bedposts, feet barely on the floor. Christmas lights reflect in the droplets of sweat on his skin. James is naked, blindfolded and gagged with black scarves Wilson bought with this occasion in mind. He's had a lot of time to plan this - and now he's regretting his meticulous planning because James looks exquisite, his cock swollen and standing in attention, and Wilson wants nothing more than to untie him and fuck him on the bed until they're both dizzy with exhaustion.

But he doesn't.

It's a game they've been playing for years now. James, always proper and in absolute control, submitting to Wilson, a force of nature that takes whatever it wants. But it's a process Wilson knows this - so instead of untying the black ropes, he slides one gentle fingertip down James' sweaty chest, circles the bellybutton and then unmercifully teases the weeping cock. Wesley moans behind his gag, hips thrusting out on their own accord, and Wilson takes his hand away. He moves to kneel on the bed behind James. He's close enough so that the other man can smell his cologne and feel the heat rolling off his body in waves, but not close enough to touch. It must be maddening, the sounds made by Wesley get higher and more desperate with every hot breath that touches the back of his neck.

Yes, Wilson had a lot of time to plan and prepare this evening.

When a month ago one of his Japanese associates suggested that Wilson's presence - "or at least your right hand man, it's important business, requires attention at the highest level" - Fisk sent Wesley because he himself was too busy to leave New York. But then plans, as plans usually do, went tits up and a trip planned for three days was now an indefinite affair. Wilson wasn't the happiest man the city after that. But he spent his long days and even longer nights productively, imagining precisely this moment.

Who would have thought. The independent, strong Wilson Fisk hates to be alone.

Snapping out of his reverie, the larger of the two men reaches for James' head and pulls at the sweat-damp hair. Wesley unconsciously bares the side of his neck to Wilson's lips and the temptation to mark, to own, to taste is too strong. When Fisk's done leaving an impressive love bite low on James' neckline ("For fuck's sake, Wilson, how many times do I have to remind you, not in places I can't cover...", says the memory in his head), Wesley is mewling behind the gag and the fingers clutching the rope are white.

"Shhhh," murmurs Wilson tenderly, reaching for lube. "I'm here. I'm here, James."

Long ago, when Fisk was a fat boy in the back row of the lecture hall and Wesley was a tall, gangly kid who paid his rent by giving blowjobs in dark alleys, Wilson thought that domination was about force. And he was always a strong one, he could dominate like nobody's business, right? His fingers could tangle in James' longish hair and pull his head down, toward Wilson's cock, fast, fast and deep, let him choke for a little while, spit easing the way, and the way his throat convulses is actually exciting...

No.

It took Wilson some time to learn that domination wasn't about who was stronger but about who was smarter. Every person has that little button, a string that can be pulled at any given time. The smart man will find it and exploit it without having to use violence - well, unless the situation requires. And Wilson is not stupid. So he searches and pushes, experiments, observes James' reactions. He learns that a gentle touch will do wonders on tight muscles of his friend's back. That James will flinch if Wilson yells at him or tries to humiliate him, but he'll shiver if Wilson's voice is low and intimate. Slowly he incorporates it, changes their routines, finds things they both enjoy. James loves being tied up, Wilson loves the control it gives him. They both agree that anything involving bodily fluids isn't fun. James allows him to mark him, to fulfill the possessive need that courses in Fisk's veins. They make it work. Through the years, they develop a system, a whole language of communication by touch, exchanged looks and almost imperceptible twitches. Wilson knows this man like no one else. He can see when the tension coils too tightly and when James is in a desperate need of relief. Of release. Like today when he finally stepped into Wilson's apartment, tired after a long flight but unable to rest, unable to sit down and stop moving.

"Go, take a shower," Wilson orders in a soft voice, knowing perfectly well he won't hear a word of resistance. "Leave your clothes in the bathroom."

And Wesley goes. Just like that. No strong words, no coercion, no violence necessary. So that's how they end up here, with Wilson's three fingers slowly stretching James' entrance, preparing him a bit too thoroughly than necessary. The apartment is silent save for Wesley's whimpers, the world outside these walls have no business here. For now, Fisk slips his fingers out of the hot, welcoming tightness, wipes them and reaches up, to untie the piece of cloth gagging Wesley.

"Let me hear you," he whispers into James' skin and leaves tiny kisses on the man's back. He doesn't have to wait long, the moment Wilson's cock touches the prepared opening, Wesley pretty much howls with need, absolutely incoherent.

Wilson hums with contentment, slowly pushing in. He's not a small man in any regard, not pummeling James right away is just a human kindness, even if it costs him a lot of inner strength to pace himself once he's halfway in and the hot vice clenches on his cock.

"Please, please, please..."

"You're doing so well, James," purrs Wilson into the man's ear. "I'm so proud of you, you're so good for me."

The answering moan echoes in the minimalistically furnished bedroom.

It takes a moment, yes, but the feeling of finally sliding all the way in, being surrounded by the heat and the want... Wilson can't even describe it or name it. It's nameless and it's absolutely everything.

But that moment passes and the need is just too sharp, too hot deep in his gut. He won't last long, Wilson knows, it's been too long of just him and his hand, dreams about doing precisely this. So he starts a brutal, demanding rhythm, he reaches around and splays his hand on James' belly, low, just above the straining cock. As tempting as it is, he doesn't touch it. Instead, Wilson changes the angle, shifts a little bit and then James' screaming as thrust after thrust hit his prostate. It's hypnotizing, this push and pull, the eternal rhythm of two bodies moving together, the struggle to come and to wait a little while longer at the same time. It will never change, Wilson thinks, but then James is absolutely silent, his lips open in a soundless scream. He's coming untouched and Fisk has no choice but to follow, and the world is white and quiet for a long while.

When he's himself again, Wilson feels the trembling of James' back, the tight muscles in his arms have to be hurting right now. With a soft murmur Wilson backs out and reaches for a knife.

"There, much better," he says softly while making a quick work of cutting ropes. Wilson has to take much of James' weight, the man is still out of it, and Fisk hurries to help him lay down.

"Thank you," whispers his lover eventually, after Wilson cleans them both with a warm cloth and almost forcibly pouring a glass of water into his throat. They both lay in bed, lights are off except the white Christmas lights on the tree and the always glowing New York on the other side of the windows.

"I missed you," sighs Wilson and it's true, as much as he doesn't like it. It sounds like a weakness to him. Maybe it is, maybe this relationship of theirs is too dangerous, maybe he's leaning on it too heavily. They're both in a deadly line of work, Wilson Fisk shouldn't be depending on anyone because people die, that's the painful truth. People die. And one day James Wesley might be one of them.

Fisk almost sobs, the thought hurts him so much.

"I told you I'd come home for Christmas," mutters Wesley back, his pronunciation is sloppy and Wilson knows the man's almost asleep. So he doesn't answer and simply holds the warm weight in his arms through the night.

It has to be enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from "Temple" by Matthew and the Atlas


End file.
